or so later they found the dory; a charter fishing boat brought it in. It was five or six miles offshore and far to the west, the way the currents ran. They never found Dr. Hollisher.
Well, that’s past and gone now, but it still bothers me, you know. I keep wondering what happened that night. There he was sitting and reading, like he always did. He’d fixed a sandwich and a whiskey with lots of ice. The reading lamp was tipped just right over his shoulder, he had a new detective story. And then, like somebody had called him, like somebody had called a good child to come home, he put the book face down and walked straight out the door and rowed away.
Eventually he was declared dead, and they found he had a deposit box in the Main Street Bank; there was just one thing in it: his will, neat, handwritten, very precise. He left the house to me. “She has taken good care of it for so many years,” he wrote, “I should like to think of her living in it now.”
Didn’t that cause a row. People whispered all sorts of things; Dr. Hollisher’s daughter came back making scenes and threatening to sue. Alfred, who was pretty annoyed himself, suggested we go visit his daughter in Chicago. And a cold wet spring we had there too.
Of course Alfred and I never lived in the house. It was bigger and nicer than mine—it had that lovely view across the bay—but I couldn’t ever live there. Whatever the law said, it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Dr. Hollisher. I knew I’d feel his ghost. And I knew that every night I’d be listening for that same call he heard.
We sold the house to a couple with two young children. I drive past it now and then, just to see. They’ve painted it a pale pink with black trim, there’s a slide where the camellia garden used to be and a swing on the oak tree in the side yard. If they hear anything, those people, they’ve never said.
Alfred and I put the money in a savings account. We’ve decided to use it to travel, to go to places we never could have afforded before. Next week we’re leaving for Egypt and a trip up the Nile to Aswan. I’ve always wanted to go there. Ever since I was a little girl looking at maps, I’ve said: I want to go there.
Now, I’m sure that when I finally get there, when I really do see Cairo and Thebes and Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, everything will be so wonderful and exciting, I’ll forget how it was all possible.
But I don’t know. I just don’t know.… The planning hasn’t been as much pleasure as I thought it would be. And sometimes I do wake up at night listening. I still don’t hear anything.
And I wonder, maybe I should.
ENDING
B Y ONE O’CLOCK THE other bank of the small bayou had completely disappeared in the summer night fog. In the muffled quiet, the flock of pet ducks, the five not yet killed by turtles, climbed slowly out of the waterside reeds and plodded halfway up the lawn, to fall asleep abruptly, heads under wings. The lawn, smooth green zoysia silvered with fog like a warm hoarfrost, rose gently to the flagstone terrace of a low curving glass and steel house. Inside, beyond tall mist-haloed windows, lights burned brightly in rooms that were quite empty, except for an occasional white-jacketed waiter, collecting forgotten glasses and plates.
In the service drive, concealed by bushy azaleas, two young men put the last of the band’s electronic equipment into a bright red van and, yawning, drove away. Immediately a caterer’s truck pulled into the empty space to load neatly tied plastic trash bags. Someone began whistling softly. Overhead a mockingbird answered sleepily.
The wedding was over.
Barbara Eagleton, mother of the bride, sat on the curving stairs in the front hall. Her thin brown face, so much like Diana Ross’s, was creased with fatigue. She was trying to decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry. While she thought, she absentmindedly picked bits of food from the stair carpeting and tossed them down to the polished
Well, that’s past and gone now, but it still bothers me, you know. I keep wondering what happened that night. There he was sitting and reading, like he always did. He’d fixed a sandwich and a whiskey with lots of ice. The reading lamp was tipped just right over his shoulder, he had a new detective story. And then, like somebody had called him, like somebody had called a good child to come home, he put the book face down and walked straight out the door and rowed away.
Eventually he was declared dead, and they found he had a deposit box in the Main Street Bank; there was just one thing in it: his will, neat, handwritten, very precise. He left the house to me. “She has taken good care of it for so many years,” he wrote, “I should like to think of her living in it now.”
Didn’t that cause a row. People whispered all sorts of things; Dr. Hollisher’s daughter came back making scenes and threatening to sue. Alfred, who was pretty annoyed himself, suggested we go visit his daughter in Chicago. And a cold wet spring we had there too.
Of course Alfred and I never lived in the house. It was bigger and nicer than mine—it had that lovely view across the bay—but I couldn’t ever live there. Whatever the law said, it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Dr. Hollisher. I knew I’d feel his ghost. And I knew that every night I’d be listening for that same call he heard.
We sold the house to a couple with two young children. I drive past it now and then, just to see. They’ve painted it a pale pink with black trim, there’s a slide where the camellia garden used to be and a swing on the oak tree in the side yard. If they hear anything, those people, they’ve never said.
Alfred and I put the money in a savings account. We’ve decided to use it to travel, to go to places we never could have afforded before. Next week we’re leaving for Egypt and a trip up the Nile to Aswan. I’ve always wanted to go there. Ever since I was a little girl looking at maps, I’ve said: I want to go there.
Now, I’m sure that when I finally get there, when I really do see Cairo and Thebes and Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, everything will be so wonderful and exciting, I’ll forget how it was all possible.
But I don’t know. I just don’t know.… The planning hasn’t been as much pleasure as I thought it would be. And sometimes I do wake up at night listening. I still don’t hear anything.
And I wonder, maybe I should.
ENDING
B Y ONE O’CLOCK THE other bank of the small bayou had completely disappeared in the summer night fog. In the muffled quiet, the flock of pet ducks, the five not yet killed by turtles, climbed slowly out of the waterside reeds and plodded halfway up the lawn, to fall asleep abruptly, heads under wings. The lawn, smooth green zoysia silvered with fog like a warm hoarfrost, rose gently to the flagstone terrace of a low curving glass and steel house. Inside, beyond tall mist-haloed windows, lights burned brightly in rooms that were quite empty, except for an occasional white-jacketed waiter, collecting forgotten glasses and plates.
In the service drive, concealed by bushy azaleas, two young men put the last of the band’s electronic equipment into a bright red van and, yawning, drove away. Immediately a caterer’s truck pulled into the empty space to load neatly tied plastic trash bags. Someone began whistling softly. Overhead a mockingbird answered sleepily.
The wedding was over.
Barbara Eagleton, mother of the bride, sat on the curving stairs in the front hall. Her thin brown face, so much like Diana Ross’s, was creased with fatigue. She was trying to decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry. While she thought, she absentmindedly picked bits of food from the stair carpeting and tossed them down to the polished
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